


an artist’s guide to correlation

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Berlin doesn't deserve Palermo, Berlin is a pretentious loser, But unfortunately for Palermo love doesn't work that way, Dom/sub Undertones, Gandia captures Berlin, M/M, Smut, this is dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “It’s my fault.”“Yes,” Berlin concedes and Palermo’s eyes dim, the light fading.Dying. A weaker man would let this go to his head, Berlin thinks. Would relish in Palermo’s eagerness to defer to him, to debase and humiliate himself for his pleasure.Or: Gandia captures Berlin instead of Tokyo, and Palermo isn't coping well with the whole situation. Berlin helps him unwind.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 33
Kudos: 177





	an artist’s guide to correlation

Cause and effect aren’t always correlated. 

It’s fallacious to conclude from only the fact that two states are connected that one causes the other. There may be other causes that explain the outcome. It may be that there’s a common cause for both of the events or that there is an alternative cause altogether. 

Observe this: 

Gandia falls to the floor. 

The cavalry bursts into the room.

An ignorant observer might conclude that there is a correlation between these two events. The very same observer might therefore, too, disregard the fact that it was Berlin who incapacitated Gandia. That he dislocated his own thumb – a travesty for any self-respecting artist – to escape his chains. That he picked up a metal rod and thrust it into Gandia’s throat without remorse. The action of a man driven by self-preservation. 

So, no. Correlation isn’t an appropriate measure for any of this. Berlin has no doubt that a scientific mind would attempt to reduce his plight to a mere series of actions. To infer that exhibit A (Gandia’s body, moaning and writing on the floor) and exhibit B (Palermo bursting into the panic room, Tokyo and Bogotá at his heels) are somehow connected. But in this case, Berlin finds the scene needs an artist’s touch to bring about its full potential.

There’s poetry in this, after all. Here:

Imagine a dank basement, the walls lined with flickering monitors displaying the distraught faces of Berlin's compatriots. They look small and insignificant when stripped off their color, reduced to smudges of black and white in a world that’s mostly grey. 

And of course there is Berlin – the strong-willed hero of this tale. A libertine with a heart of ice, cold and calculating. There’s a touch of Byron in him; the piercing eyes and pale skin, and the dark cloud hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles. There’s no reason to root for him, and yet…

The reader buzzes with anticipation as an opportunity presents itself. When Gandia turns his back on the hostage. What comes next is going to be cruel, yes. But it’s a necessary step that must be taken if the story is to continue. A chance that must be seized.

And so Berlin does.

Gandia whirls around when he hears the handcuffs – relieved of their purpose – fall to the floor. His eyes are narrowed and alert, but it’s too late. Berlin has already reached for the metal rod, heavy in his hand, and a second later finds Gandia lying on the floor in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood. Berlin tilts his head back as he takes in the sight in front of him. The blood springing forth from Gandia’s neck looks like a crimson halo, a perversion of Maggiore’s mosaics, hallowed and untouchable.

At his feet, Gandia gasps and whines and moans in pain. His fall has upset the bulb dangling from the ceiling and its light is now flitting around the room like a bashful bird, painting the walls with a coven of Berlin’s shadows, looming and dancing like Death’s harbingers.

(Do you see the poetry now?)

Like a wrongful God, Berlin ignores Gandia’s pleas for help. They’re incoherent anyway, a garbled mess. Besides, there’s nothing Berlin can do. Nothing he _wants_ to do either, not if Gandia keeps spitting blood at his shoes like a fountain at Versailles. Berlin considers mocking him for it – consider it payback for the taunting he had to endure at Gandia’s hands. For all the disgusting lies he spewed about his _pet Argentinian_. 

But before he can say anything, the door bursts open. 

Palermo sighs in relief when he sees Berlin, his eyes flicking to the ceiling as though to thank a God neither of them believes in. Tokyo merely groans at the mess he’s managed to make of Gandia, causing Berlin to scoff. He’d like to see _her_ do better in his situation. 

“Look at him, Tokyo,” Palermo says, his voice loud enough to drown out Gandia’s incessant gurgling, and Berlin’s lips curve into a smile as Palermo steps over Gandia’s body like it’s a bump in the road. A minor inconvenience. “Chained up like a fucking animal, and he still manages to take Gandia out. A man after my own heart.”

He sounds cheerful, _triumphant_ , but Berlin knows Palermo. He knows every crevice of his mind, the good and the bad, which is how he knows that Palermo is struggling to put on a brave face. It’s nothing but a mask, a façade. A guise meant to obscure the blind panic raging inside of him. The truth, Berlin knows, lies in the emptiness of his eyes and the slight quiver of his bottom lip. 

(Berlin is an artist, after all. He has made note of every expression on his friend’s face. Palermo is a fascinating object, and one of these days Berlin’d like to study him extensively. To steer him into one of the light beams in the Duomo de Siena and paint his every flaw.)

“The key, Palermo.”

Berlin nods towards Gandia and waits patiently as Palermo takes the key from his chest pocket, all the while ignoring the miffed look Tokyo throws their way. Berlin doesn’t know why she’s complaining; she’s got Bogotá to help her manhandle the berserk onto a stretcher. There’s no need to capitalize on Palermo’s time, too. 

Palermo sinks to his knees in front of him, reaching for the lock around his neck. They’re at eye-level now, close enough for Berlin to note how pale Palermo looks. How sickly. The skin around his eyes is still scraped-up, angry red marks scattered around his eyes like sun-kissed freckles.

Berlin can't help but notice that Palermo’s hands are shaking. The key keeps clink-clinking against the lock in a mockery of chamber music, and Berlin flicks his eyes over Palermo’s shoulder to exchange a pointed look with Tokyo. She nods in understanding, and a moment later she’s by Palermo’s side, prying the key from his trembling hands and ordering him to help Bogotá with Gandia’s body.

Palermo leaves without putting up a fight, which is enough to let Berlin know in just how bad of a shape he is.

Tokyo seems to realize it, too. She gives him a slight nod in Palermo’s direction, her brows arched in a silent question. _Is he going to be okay_ , she wants to know, and Berlin is certain that she doesn’t so much care about his mental wellbeing as the question of whether he’s going to be a liability. If they’ll have to chain him up again. 

Berlin offers her a reassuring smile – just a twitch of his lips, really – but Tokyo understands that what he’s saying is _I’ll deal with it_ and _if you can’t trust him, then trust_ me _._ The hardness in her eyes lets him know that she isn’t satisfied with this solution, but it’s the best they’ve got and so it’ll have to be enough.

The lock falls open with a satisfying clang, and Tokyo steps back to allow him a moment to compose himself. His blood still boils at the indignity of having been chained to the wall, cuffed and collared like a docile pet. He stretches, moving his neck from side to side like a snake to get rid of the kinks in his shoulders.

Tokyo sidles up to Bogotá, and Berlin watches as they carry Gandia off to their makeshift infirmary, the gobernador’s office filling alarmingly fast with the casualties of their little war, their vendetta against injustice. Their résistance. 

(He wonders how many more will have to fall. How many more they will have to bury in their pursuit of greatness. The road to glory is paved in red overalls and Dali masks, even though Berlin has sworn to himself that he wouldn't lose anyone again. Not after what happened in the Mint.)

Once their footsteps have faded away, Berlin turns to look at Palermo. 

He’s standing next to the control panel, his gaze fixed resolutely on the pool of Gandia’s blood at his feet. Its surface gleams like a mirror, the illusion only broken by the bloodied footprints leading from it out the door like a trail of crimson breadcrumbs. The darkest of fairy tales.

There’s no other way to say it, and Berlin’s not one to mince his words – at least not in a situation like this: Palermo looks shaken. Lost and vulnerable, and it’s absolutely _haunting_ to see him like this. _Where’s your bravura, my dearest_ , Berlin thinks. _Where's your tenacity and daring?_

It makes him wonder…

What exactly happened while he was held captive? How did the others cope with Gandia’s charming impromptu rendition of _Die Hard_? Were they even close to taking him down, or were they steering – without their leader, their master, their luminary – into yet another catastrophe? 

He wonders, too, if Palermo still holds a grudge against him for allowing Tokyo to tie him up. Berlin tried his best to fend off their complaints, but in the end he was outnumbered, and there was little sense in sacrificing both Palermo _and_ himself to appease the others.

(He thought that Palermo would understand. That he'd realize that this was the lesser evil.)

Berlin closes the distance between them, slow and deliberate like a lion toying with its prey. Palermo doesn’t look up – at least not until Berlin presses his palm against the slope where his neck meets his shoulder, and pushes until Palermo’s back hits the wall behind him. It’s an echo of a time long lost, an homage to Florence.

Palermo’s mouth falls open in a breathless gasp, and the sound is as forlorn and eager as it was then. There’s a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes, just a spark. Truthfully, it amuses Berlin how excited, how clearly _aroused_ , Palermo is from a mere shove-up against a wall. 

His mind must be racing right now. Trying to deduce Berlin's motives, wondering if he should allow himself to build his hopes up or if there’s something else to this, something darker and more volatile in nature...

Eventually, Palermo caves.

“It’s my fault.”

“Yes,” Berlin concedes and Palermo’s eyes dim, the light fading. _Dying_. A weaker man would let this go to his head, Berlin thinks. Would relish in Palermo’s eagerness to defer to him, to debase and humiliate himself for his pleasure. For his amusement. 

Palermo should count himself lucky that Berlin is not a cruel master.

“But,” Berlin continues, “They shouldn’t have chained you up like a worthless dog in the first place.”

Because what the others don’t understand is that there would be no heist without his clever ingeniero. There would be no gold, no glory, no liberté. Berlin tried to tell them, but there’s no arguing with Tokyo when she’s on a rampage.

(Berlin supposes he should be grateful that there were no guns involved this time around. The mere thought of Palermo ending up in a friendly game of Russian roulette _sickens_ him.)

And so Palermo had to suffer the consequences for Tokyo’s disobedience, her uprising, the reckoning of the _matriarchy_. They turned him into a hostage, chaining him up as though that would somehow be enough to break his spirit. To _tame_ him. But of course Palermo lashed out, and Berlin couldn’t blame him for it. It’s what any animal would have done when backed into a corner. Snarl and growl and bark and bite.

Still...

In the end, it was Berlin who paid the price for Rio’s capture, for Tokyo’s defiance, for Palermo’s pièce de résistance. It’s an accursed chain, cause and cause and cause, and—

Slowly, Berlin’s eyes flick down to the palm he’s got pressed against Palermo’s collarbone. Just a bit lower and he’d be able to feel the frantic flutter of his heart, a hummingbird trapped beneath his hand – so laughably easy to crush.

His fingers grasp the zipper of his overall. The sound of the teeth parting, one by one by one, is unbearably loud in the strained silence of the panic room

Palermo’s breath hitches in his throat. He doesn’t say anything though, always eager to follow Berlin’s lead. Grateful for what Berlin is willing to offer him. Palermo’s complete faith in him gives rise to a dark, taunting voice inside the back of his mind, asking _how far can you push him until he’ll break_ , asking _would you_ enjoy _breaking him?_

He wouldn’t, of course. Just because he’s never _asked_ to safeguard Palermo’s heart doesn’t mean he’s not willing to treasure it. 

Besides, he finds that he’s quite fond of the look on Palermo’s face: dazed and disheveled. Lust and yearning and resignation – a truly heady combination. And then there’s the way Palermo's chest heaves. How he clenches his fists to keep himself from reaching out, unsure if he is allowed to reciprocate. 

(He isn’t. They’re playing by Berlin’s rules or not at all.)

Berlin kisses him then, catching Palermo’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down, _hard_ , until Palermo moans. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Berlin whispers against the side of his face, his nose brushing against Palermo’s temple. Berlin hasn’t even touched him yet, and Palermo’s already a gasping, trembling mess. To be allowed to see him like this, to hold such power over him – it’s _exquisite_.

Once he’s finished with the zipper, Berlin’s hand dips beneath Palermo’s shirt, fingers spreading out to brush the bare skin of his abdomen, the trail of hair that leads into his boxers. Palermo shudders. His pupils are blown as he stares at Berlin, silently pleading.

He looks absolutely _wrecked_. 

Berlin traces the waistband of his boxers before dipping his fingers inside, wrapping his hand around his cock. He’s already hard, and Berlin wants to laugh at his eagerness. He wants to tease and taunt him, wind him up even more. But that isn’t what Palermo needs right now. He needs an outlet – a catharsis – and Berlin is willing to provide it for him.

He’s never touched another man like this before, but Palermo makes it easy. He’s incredibly vocal, and Berlin finds himself listening intently to the noises he makes in answer to what he likes the most. A careful squeeze of his hand rewards him with a sharp exhale, a twist of his wrist with a tortured groan. Brushing his thumb over the head of his cock results in a slight shudder, shoulders tensing and mouth falling open in a breathless _sí_. 

From the corner of his eyes he sees Palermo reaching for him. His fingers are just about to clasp the lapels of his overall when Berlin squeezes his hand around him and shoots him a disapproving look. Palermo freezes, his hands stopping in mid-air as his eyes search Berlin’s face. 

“Put your hands against the wall.”

For a moment, Palermo looks like he wants to protest. But then he whines and does as he’s told, and Berlin rewards him by picking up his rhythm. His strokes become hard and fast and _punishing_ , and soon enough Palermo is writhing against the wall, gasping and mewling like he’s being tortured.

Berlin leans in, his lips tracing the shell of Palermo’s ear. “Now, _Martín_.”

Palermo lets out a strangled gasp and comes all over his hand before going boneless against him. Berlin wants to scowl at the mess – really, this is why he prefers women – but the adoring look on Palermo’s face is enough to soften his displeasure. 

He removes his hand from Palermo’s boxers and brings it up to Palermo’s lips, his intent clear. There’s no hesitation – not even a flicker of disobedience – as Palermo’s tongue darts out to lap his come off Berlin’s fingers, eager as a docile kitten. 

And then there’s the way Palermo looks up at him with adoring eyes. His lashes flutter; the dim lights turn them into half-crescents, little moonlight shadows painted on his cheekbones.

Berlin doesn’t stop Palermo when he closes the distance between them, sure now that his advances are welcome. His lips taste salty, almost tangy, and Berlin isn’t sure how to feel about that. He should probably be disgusted, and yet his hands find their way into Palermo’s hair, fisting and pulling and holding him firmly in place. 

“Here, let me-” Palermo’s hand finds its way to the zipper of Berlin’s overall, his legs bending as he’s about to sink to his knees in front of him like an undeserving disciple. But Berlin clasps his hand over Palermo’s, effectively stilling his movement.

He takes a step back and watches as Palermo’s arms fall back to his side, his hands empty. He pretends that it doesn’t sting to see his dearest friend like this, to see the confusion in his eyes and the hurt flashing across his face. It’s a heartbreaking thing, and so Berlin offers him a bitter smile – the very same that star-crossed lovers exchange as they part ways. 

But see, what Palermo doesn’t understand is that this is simply the nature of cause and effect.

In the end, it comes down to this: 

Palermo loves Berlin, and Berlin loves Palermo.

But as any aesthetically inclined soul knows, there’s a twisted little thing called dramatic irony. A poetic justice which demands that people like Berlin suffer in the ninth circle of hell. Sooner or later, there’ll be a reckoning. An apocalypse, a cataclysm. Armageddon or Ragnarök – whatever you may call it. It is manifold and multifarious, a beast of many faces. An abominable gestalt, an insatiable hydra.

Berlin knows this with absolute certainty: one day, it’ll consume him whole. It will burn him alive, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And Berlin vows that when the time comes, he’ll do the selfless thing and push Palermo away. 

Palermo will survive, because Berlin will give his life to protect him. Because without Palermo, there would be no plan, no heist, no success. He’s the spark to fan the flame. 

Palermo is the _cause_.

But Berlin?

He’s still waiting for the effect.

**Author's Note:**

> I basically just wanted to see Berlin get captured by Gandia, because listen: If Palermo knows about ye olde 'dislocate your thumb' trick, then I'm sure Berlin does as well.
> 
> Kudos & comments are so appreciated! I've been blown away by how responsive and lovely this fandom is, you all are amazing.


End file.
